


Surprise

by shimadagans



Series: Genyatta Week 2018 [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Genyatta Week 2018, M/M, day 1: music/dance, this is so self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans
Summary: Overwatch decides the best way to convince outside parties that they're a serious force is to have a gala. Everyone holds galas, right? Genji just wants to get through the night painlessly, but Zenyatta always manages to surprise him.





	Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm aware this is like....a week late, let me live, I was at a con last week.

It’s not every night that Overwatch decides to have a party, especially not a fancy one, especially not a _gala._ The years Genji spent in his youth--flouncing around fancy parties and pulling information from oh-so-willing confidants, easy as pouring wine—they feel so far away, so long ago. Now he feels...overgrown, too big for the tailored suit he wears at Winston’s weak insistence (“I don’t think anyone will take us very seriously if we don’t look serious. And serious means wearing _actual_ clothes.”). It’s not that he thinks he looks bad as he looks in the mirror, fidgeting with the ribbon on the back of his head; he knows, objectively, that a well-made suit can make anyone look good, it’s just that he feels out of place, especially next to someone as radiant as Zenyatta.

Said omnic emerges from their shared washroom, chrome polished, the remaining scratches and dents making him look distinguished. Zen always equates them to the greys cropping up among Genji’s sometimes-black, sometimes-green hair, marks of age and survival. He gives Genji a once over and crosses over to him, reaching up with plated fingers, “Do you think tonight is more of a bow night, or a bun night?”

Genji finds himself wordless, breathless for a long moment, before guiding the ribbon to Zenyatta’s hands, using the mirror to see, “Surprise me.”

He’s got his faceplate off to the side, ready to go back on as they leave their quarters, and he closes his eyes as Zen works, less an expression of trust than an expression of acceptance at this point.

When Zenyatta hums in affirmation, he opens his eyes again to see a complex bow, nearly a fascinator and he offers a smile, catching one of Zen’s retreating hands to bring it to his lips, “Thank you, it’s lovely.”

* * *

 

When they finally slip into the party, it’s already well underway. They’d promised they’d make an appearance, though, to be seen among their esteemed guests from the UN, from Helix, even from the cryptic Volskaya Industries. The whole thing reeks of good press to Genji’s reformed nose, though at the very least nobody looks like they’re in pain or being forced to be here. It’s a far cry from his youth, though Zen can tell, as always, when his thoughts are getting away from him. He eases Genji towards where Jesse (sans hat, for once) and Fareeha stand, both strikingly dressed, and they both wave, welcome them.

“Took you long enough,” comes McCree’s greeting, though he gets an elbow from his friend in answer, “Nice bow. Makes me wish I had one, almost.”

“You both look wonderful,” Zen offers in return, lights glinting in a maybe-wink, and Genji adds “Yes, we look like agents instead of the criminals some seem to paint us as.”

They all sober up a bit before Fareeha nudges Jesse, “Go get us some drinks. I think we all deserve a little time to celebrate.”

“Why me? Can’t you get drinks? Look, Genji, she’s acting like she’s not the one with two whole arms!”

As the other two dissolve into petty, soft bickering, and Zen squeezes his arm, Genji thinks maybe this party won’t be as awful as he thought.

* * *

 

 

After several awkward conversations with different representatives from different “interested parties” whose faces and names all blur together in his head, Genji escapes onto the balcony. He slips past the dance floor, where a world-famous DJ keeps the party going, courtesy of a favor to Winston himself. It’s a nice change, Genji thinks, from the old guard, where usually favors for the commander meant people watching him through too-clear glass.

The sea wind helps him find himself again as he leans against the railing, looking over the rest of the watchpoint with something like nostalgia, now that he can let himself feel it. It doesn’t feel quite like home, he thinks, Nepal will always be the closest to home he might get, but…it feels like _something_ now, something other than quiet dread. He takes another deep, filtered breath before he feels still and even. He sees the former Captain Amari step onto the balcony and decides he’s not quite ready to have _that_ conversation yet, only offering her a nod as he sidles back into the main hall. Another thing he hasn’t quite gotten used to, even months after his return to Overwatch; there seem to be ghosts everywhere, things he’s maybe not quite ready to confront, so soon after seeing his own ghosts again.

Hanamura still feels heavy on his mind and in his heart, so he puts that away for the night, gravitating towards Zen as he re-enters the fray, watching his arms move as he talks to someone who Genji can’t be quite bothered to remember. As well dressed as Genji might be, he thinks, quietly, that Zen is a swan among geese tonight especially, in his own formal robes, fancier than anything he thinks he’s seen his closest confidant in. When jokingly pressed on materialism, Zenyatta had simply replied that he saw nothing wrong in the aesthetic when it was appropriate, capricious as always. He stands with his former teacher only a few moments longer before the two people he was engaged with drift away with passive farewells.

“I suppose I can’t win over everyone,” Zenyatta sighs as he turns to tuck his arm back through Genji’s, jigsawed again.

“At least not as easily as you won me over,” he counters, smiling mostly to himself, “Then again, I surely did not think myself in need of any help or friends when we met.”

“It seems so long ago…” Zenyatta seems to catch himself, straightening visibly, “Well, the night is still young, as they say.”

“Well, Zen, what would you like to do?”

The answering glow of his lights is bright as the sun at its zenith, “Well, Genji, I remember being promised a dance at some point,” his fingertips linger on Genji’s arm, leaving phantom sunspots in their wake as they finally lift, only to take the other’s hands in his own, “Do you think that would still be a reasonable request?”

Genji laughs and swallows thickly, “You could ask the world of me and I’d bring you three planets, you know this,” a snort, “You _use_ this to your advantage.”

“And you love every second,” comes the reply, Zenyatta’s array flicking side to side, maybe even sheepish, “I’m not above pressing my advantage when the universe is kind enough to give me one.”

In another place, if it were just the two of them, Genji might allow himself to continue down this path but tonight, he puts on his most gentlemanly mantle, stepping away to bow to Zen, offering him a hand, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice that, for some reason, you have no dance partner. May I be so bold as to offer myself to the cause?”

Zenyatta presses his free hand to his faceplate, reaching for Genji’s hand and returning his bow, “Bold as you may be, I will gladly accept your invitation.”

As they move to the floor, the DJ glances up with something like a supernatural sense, dialing back his music to something slower, something almost vintage sounding, and Genji’s younger self would kick him for lounging in such cheesiness but tonight, he doesn’t care.

His hands rest on Zenyatta’s frame as if they belong there, and he wonders briefly, and not for the first time, how it feels to him. He can’t help but feel catious, and Zen must be able to tell because he murmurs, voicebox almost fuzzy, “I was under the impression you are quite the Casanova, Genji, but here I am wondering if perhaps I am the better dancer of us two.”

It gets a chuckle out of Genji, and he leads Zen a bit more ambitiously, quicker steps as the music swells into something he swears he’s heard before, sweeping a bit wider in a spin, holding his partner in a more relaxed fashion, “Pardon me, let me make sure not to bore you, Zenyatta.”

They sway through the song, following the music freely, spinning one another easily, second-nature.

“I didn’t know you could dance like this, Master,” Genji says with a note of surprise, finding himself being led, now.

“Ah, my time before the Shambali taught me many things, my student,” comes Zen’s reply, “You just never asked.”

_Maybe_ , Genji thinks, letting Zen lead him across the floor gracefully, eyes coming to rest on them from other dancers, _maybe one day, I’ll surprise him instead._


End file.
